


Don't Get Mad

by AdamantSteve



Series: The Adventurous Sex Life of Clint Barton [8]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clothing Kink, D/s elements, Fake Marriage, Infidelity Roleplay, M/M, Prostitution Roleplay, Roleplay, Undercover, garage sex, poppers, prostitute!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is undercover playing the wealthy husband of Maria Hill. Clint shows up uninvited and does a roleplay of his own.</p><p>In other words, Clint shows up pretending to be a male prostitute, seducing Phil's mild mannered undercover persona. Once he gets into his hotel room however, Phil's not so mild mannered after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by [ Dunicha](http://dunicha.tumblr.com), as always :)

Phil’s been trying to fix up the garage, so he’s in a ragged pair of jeans and a tshirt with holes in it. He smells how you’d expect someone who’s been working in a hot, dusty garage all day to smell, but that doesn’t stop Clint from pressing him back into the rusty hunk of car to get inside his pants. 

 

“That was... nice,” Phil breathlessly understates after a particularly enthusiastic blowjob. “What’s the occasion?” 

Clint kisses his belly and sits up. “I don’t know. You looking all rugged and shit. What’d you expect me to do? _Not_ suck your dick?” 

Phil chuckles and looks down at himself. “Dressed like this?” 

Clint pulls Phil's grimy tshirt back down for him. “Something about when you’re not in the suit,” he says, his breath warm on Phil’s lips as he moves in for a kiss, “makes me crazy hot for you.” 

Phil huffs a laugh. “How do you think I’ve felt on all those undercover missions I’ve sent you on over the years?” 

A pleased smile lights up Clint’s face. “Really?” 

“Are you kidding me?” 

“Like when?” 

Phil sits back and thinks for a moment. “Remember LA?” 

“When I was-” 

Phil nods. “You looked like such a delinquent in that goddamn leather jacket and those jeans. I thought I was going to go blind the amount I jerked off that week.” 

Clint laughs, a little scandalised as Phil shakes his head and continues. “You didn’t make it any easier on me, being such a brat the entire time.” 

“S’cause I liked you,” Clint replies with an easy shrug; so many things have come out since getting together that one or the other did because of their mutual unrequited interest. 

“You drove me crazy,” Phil promises.

“Yeah? D’you ever wish you were one of those johns?” 

The way Phil shivers and then bites his lip is a play at coyness, though his eyes are dark. 

“You dirty old man,” Clint says, grinning wildly. 

“You were a nightmare. I wanted to do all sorts of things to you. Teach you a lesson or two.” 

“I wish you had,” Clint shuffles even closer across the seat til he’s pressed close. “I thought about it a lot that mission. I imagined you being real mean, making me beg and stuff. Telling me what a filthy whore I was.” 

 

He pulls at Phil’s tshirt again to kiss his neck and Phil shivers. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “And,” he pulls away so he can get at Clint’s neck instead, “since I was paying, you’d have had to do everything I said.” 

Clint huffs into his hair. “I sure would.” 

“No complaints. No back-talk, no sass. “Just ‘yes sir’.” 

  
Phil has his hand on Clint’s crotch and rubs over the bulge in his jeans with the heel of it. “You like that idea, huh?” 

Clint sighs and nods against Phil’s neck. “Which part? Doing what I tell you or me being so turned on by you I’d pay you for sex?” 

“All of it,” he says breathlessly. “You being the boss. Owning me.”

Phil shifts so he can unzip Clint’s pants, silently thanking all the gods he knows for bringing Clint Francis Barton into his life.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Phil kisses Maria on the cheek and watches her get in a limousine. His phone chimes in his pocket and he takes it out as he turns, sliding his finger across the screen.   _I miss you,_ the message says.

 _Just a couple more days,_ Phil writes back before putting the phone away and going back into the hotel. When he steps out of the elevator it buzzes again.  _How’s married life treating you?_ Phil huffs and keys open the door to his room. _Blissful,_ he types back. No sooner has he sent it than another message comes through. _Don't go turning straight on me ;)_

 

There are shopping bags covering half the couch from Maria’s previous shopping trips. Chanel, Balenciaga, Marc Jacobs; beautiful things bought carelessly with ‘Phil’s’ money as Maria infiltrates the inner circle of the socialite second wives of some probably-definitely terrorists. They’ve been in one of the suites for a week now, visiting from ‘out of town’. Phil’s just the window dressing though, a convincing rich older husband that can bankroll his wife’s excess as she wines and dines with her manicured quarry. 

 

Phil sits on the couch and idly looks through the bag nearest him finding a sleek mauve and grey silk tie wrapped in tissue paper. He smiles to himself. For all Maria’s ruthless attitude she can be frightfully thoughtful when she thinks no one’s looking. 

 

There’s not much for Phil to do other than go for dinner with Maria each night and work out in the hotel gym. It’s frustrating - he’s a cab ride away from the apartment he shares with Clint and it would be so easy just to go home. It’s moot though, since Clint’s not there - he’s in Basel with Natasha rolling off of rooftops and blowing things up. All Phil’s had are texts that are mostly complaints, though sometimes they’re filthy promises of what they'll do to one another when they both get home.

 

 _Wish you were here,_ Phil taps out. _I love having you in a hotel bed._ Clint’s a sucker for crisp white bed linens and the decadence of room service, and Phil takes every opportunity he can to indulge him. 

He expects a response to that, something lewd or leading on to being lewd, but none comes so he puts the thought of a naked Clint sprawled across the couch drinking a five dollar coke out of his mind. 

 

He spends the day doing what little work he can via encrypted email before heading down to the gym for a while and then having a massage in the hotel spa. When he goes back up to the room Maria’s back, sitting on the sofa next to even more bags and rubbing her feet. “Hello, dear,” Phil says as he shuts the door. She shoots him a deadly look. “Twelve miles,” she says. “I walked twelve miles in these things today.” She nods towards the towering sandals cast off on the floor beside her, their blood red soles reflecting in the chrome leg of the coffee table. “I’m beginning to think these women are some kind of lizard people with regenerative skin.” 

 

Phil stifles a smile. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks, walking over and peering into the tops of the bags. “Eh,” she replies. “I’m going to have a bath. Later the girls and I are going to dinner and then... _dancing_!’” She says the word with such overly false enthusiasm that the smile Phil’s been stifling wins out. “Would that it be I could take your place,” he says wistfully and she punches him lightly in the thigh. 

 

He actually _would_ kind of like to join her - anything to liven up the tedium of his ‘hard at work in their suite’ current existence. This mission has really made him appreciate the grind of the arm-candy assignments he’s had to send so many female agents on - all the intel and nothing to do with it but pretend to be just a pretty face. Or in this instance, a fat wallet.

 

“Well, I guess I’ll eat upstairs and then go to bed,” Phil sighs, pulling a dress out of a Louis Vuitton bag and holding it up before going to the master bedroom to look at Maria’s assortment of shoes. “I assume you’re expecting to stay out late?” he calls, picking out a couple of pairs, mindful of Maria’s feet. 

She replies, “Yeah, probably til the small hours. Aline is a real 'last call' kind of partier.” Phil comes back and arranges the outfit he’s pulled together by the desk before rooting through a jewelry box for appropriate earrings. Maria watches him fuss but doesn’t say anything; since Phil actively enjoys essentially dressing other people up, figuring out what to wear is just another chore she doesn’t have to worry about. Plus it makes Phil feel slightly less redundant.

 

After a shower, he dresses in one of the rather nice suits that helped seal the deal of getting him to come on this milkrun of a mission, bids goodnight to Maria and heads out to the bar and restaurant on the top floor. 

 

There’s an expensive air to the place befitting the clientele; rich and sumptuous and tasteful. Beautiful people made moreso in one way or another by money. Phil takes what’s become his usual seat in the lounge and asks for a dirty martini, taking off his jacket and looking out over the city while he waits. He’s not particularly hungry yet, is happy to wait, be ushered along by the staff in that polite buffering way people with money are handled with. 

 

There are a few people in the bar, the conversation and clanking of glass and cutlery muted by architecture and drapery, and Phil relaxes, feeling as though he’s floating in a warm, soft sea. The waiter comes back with his drink and Phil doesn’t even need to tell him the room number to charge it to; he’s been here most every night this week and told the man all sorts of details about this made up life, pointless elaborations just for the hell of it. 

 

He pulls out his phone when it buzzes silently in his pocket. _Don’t be mad,_ reads Clint’s message, and Phil shakes his head as his mind unhelpfully begins to detail other times Clint’s said that: broken arm in Bogota, losing a few pints of blood in Havana, going wildly off-plan during too many missions to count.

 

 _Why?_ Phil replies, frowning. There’s no answer and the string of worry that cords through him when they’re apart begins to thrum. He looks around the room without really looking, mind set on all the unseen threats besetting the Clint in his imagination and itching to do something about them. He finds himself focusing on someone propped at the bar with his back to Phil, his battered leather jacket standing out amongst the tailored suits around him. Phil’s stomach drops when he realises what he’s not supposed to get mad about. 

 

Clint swivels slowly on the stool until he’s facing him, and Phil’s expecting his face to be all I-pulled-a-prank-and-you’re-mad-but-you-still-think-I’m-cute, but it’s not. He looks... It’s the face of a predator is what it is, like all he sees when he looks at Phil is prey.

 

Phil’s had good practice at hiding the emotions on his face so he looks away as though he doesn’t know the man who’s watching him from the bar, but when he starts slinking over - and theres no doubt about it: Clint _slinks_ \- Phil looks back and watches because how can he not? Clint's wearing the same outfit he wore on that mission in LA: dark blue jeans that are so tight they leave nothing to the imagination and a black tshirt that's tight and ragged at the hem. It's one Phil's tried to throw out on more than one occasion, though now he can’t recall why. On top of that is the jacket, that goddamn wet dream of a jacket, which he’s more than familiar with since it's lived in their wardrobe since it mysteriously went missing from Outfitting. 

 

Phil drinks in the image before darting his eyes away: the staff all know him as mild mannered family man Phil Miller, not a man that looks at beautiful boys like Clint as though he wants to eat them and be eaten in return.

 

“This seat taken?” Clint drawls, a hand with half a dozen silver rings resting on the back of the chair next to him. 

Phil looks up to study his face and tries to work out what exactly Clint’s play is here but can’t quite get a read on it. “No,” he replies, and Clint leers and sits down, spreading his legs and leaning back looking perfectly debauched. “Do I know you?” Phil asks, reaching for the martini and sipping it. He’s not entirely sure if he’s meant to be annoyed or not, but Clint knows this isn’t on; they don’t do this kind of thing when they’re working. It’s a rule. It’s meant to be a rule.

 

“Not yet, but you will,” Clint replies, taking a swig from a bottle of Budweiser, which in itself is incongruous enough with the place - strictly two napkins under every glass - but it fits perfectly well with whatever he's doing right now.

Phil raises his eyebrows but Clint just keeps _looking_ at him.

 

“What brings you to the city?” Clint asks, tapping a ring on the neck of the bottle like he's making conversation.

Phil’s nostrils flare and he shifts in his seat. “Business. With my wife.” 

“But you’re alone tonight.” Clint takes another swig and Phil’s helpless against watching him swallow. 

“She went out with some friends.” 

Clint tuts. “Leaving you all alone?” He pouts and his eyes range over Phil again. His thumb tracing around the condensation on the neck of the bottle. “Aren’t you lonely?”

Phil frowns and realises he’s been smoothing down the same patch of his trousers for too long. “I’m fine. I’m not... I’m fine.” 

 

“You seem lonely to me.” Clint switches hands and brings his thumb up to suck it into his mouth. Phil suppresses a shudder. And then frowns, putting down his glass.

“Listen, I don’t know what you think you’re doing here-” 

The manager stops by at that moment to lean in and ask, “Is everything alright here, Phil? Is this man bothering you?” 

Clint looks at Phil and his face is filled with daring. “No, John,” Phil finds himself saying. “Everything’s fine.” The man looks unconvinced and Phil blurts: “He’s a friend of my son's.” He backs that up with a smile and the man nods and apologises, muttering something about a guest list before backing away and minutely shrugging at Malcolm the bartender. 

 

Once he’s gone, Clint licks his lips at Phil and grins. “Son’s friend, huh? You know, I can call you Daddy if you want me to, I won't charge extra.” 

Phil does shiver this time and then grits his teeth. His cock’s been slowly filling out the whole time Clint’s been sat there and the jump that it makes just about threatens to tear his trousers.

 

He takes a less dainty sip of his drink and tries to calm himself down. Clint’s always had the special ability of being able to induce in Phil both lust and irritation in equal measure, and he’s doing it so brazenly it’s actually making Phil angry. Phil’s wise to it but pretty much powerless to do anything about it.

 

Clint knows exactly what he’s doing. “Five hundred for sex,” he says slowly, running his thumb up and down the neck of the bottle. “Or I can blow you for three.” 

Phil’s eyes are wide when they flick over to Clint who evenly matches his gaze and sits even further back in his chair like he didn’t just give Phil _prices._

 

“I’m married,” Phil says. It comes out more shakily than outraged, and he knows he’s done for.

Clint shrugs. “You want me to tell you she can’t give you what I can?"

Phil starts to say something but the words don’t come out, and Clint keeps going. “I can tell you want me. I know your dick’s rock hard under that table thinkin’ about me on my knees for you.” He rakes his eyes over Phil. “I’m good and tight, Daddy. This is the first bar I’ve been in tonight.”

 

“ _Stop_ ,” Phil snaps at last, slamming his drink down with more force than is necessary. “I am _not_ interested.” 

Clint runs a hand down his thigh and shamelessly squeezes his own crotch, watching Phil’s eyes follow his fingers. “Yes you are.”

“If my wife found out I was even talking to you,” Phil huffs, and he knows he’s clutching at straws.

“She won’t find out,” Clint promises. “I’m very discreet.” 

The way he enunciates _discreet_ is for some reason the thing that breaks Phil's resolve, if he had it in the first place. He glares at Clint as he gets up, gathering his jacket to hold in front of him to hide the erection that’s ruining the line of his pants. “I’m not interested,” he repeats, pointing a finger. 

 

“Aw, but Daddy,” Clint calls with a pout that Phil doesn't see on his way out to the elevator.

Phil's hands shake as he texts the room number to Clint's phone.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Phil’s no sooner back in the suite than there’s a knock on the door. He opens it and Clint’s leaning on the doorframe. He tips his head and leers. “Room service.”

“I told you I’m not interested.” 

Phil lets Clint push past him anyway.

“Get out,” he says, letting the door swing shut. “Get out of here. Go sell yourself on a street corner.” 

Clint ignores him and steps into the sitting area, running a finger along the back of the couch before tipping one of the bags towards him to peer into it. 

“You don’t want me to leave,” Clint says. “You want me to suck on your cock.” His eyes are filth when he looks at Phil, and the erection he’s sporting is no longer hidden under his jacket. 

“I’m not gay,” Phil retorts, looking him up and down in an approximation of indignance. 

Clint shrugs.“Never said you were.”

 

It’s all a play, all pretend, but there’s a part of Phil that really is angry with him. Though there’s another part of him that’s back in LA, lusting after his goddamn pain in the ass.

 

He moves back to the door and considers turning the knob and telling Clint to get out again, but instead he slides the deadbolt on. He stands there and looks unseeingly at the fire escape instructions, hearing Clint sidling up behind him. A hand snakes itself around his side and he shudders. Then there’s a kiss on the back of his neck and he tips his head forward til his forehead rests on the door. The hand on his side slides down til it’s just ghosting over the tented fabric. 

 

He tenses and grabs Clint’s wrist, turning and pushing him away. If he wanted to, Clint could easily overpower Phil - too used to the other’s fighting style for any tactical advantages beyond Clint being stronger. But that’s not what this is about. This is about Phil The John and Clint The _Whore_. 

 

Phil jabs a hand at Clint’s chest and he steps back, smirking at having broken his mark’s resolve. It fires something within Phil, that smirk - one he’s seen countless times before - and he lets all those moments of quiet irritation and private lust wash over him as he orders Clint to get on his knees.

 

He grabs at his own cock as he watches Clint go down gracefully. “Is this what you want?” Clint nods and smirks up at him, and it stokes the hot annoyance burning inside him. He’s not completely sure what he’s annoyed about, and he can’t be that annoyed when his cock is as hard as it is, but still. He wants to make this impudent little tease _work_.

 

“Beg.” 

 

The look on Clint’s face, that playful, arrogant smirk, hardens til he’s looking pissed off too. “Gimme the money,” he counters. 

 

With a huff, Phil reaches for his jacket where it’s hung by the door to pull out his wallet. He takes out a stack of bills and holds it out for Clint to take. When he reaches his hand out to take it, Phil pulls it out of his reach. “I said beg.” 

 

Clint’s nostrils flare and he huffs. After a moment, he licks his lips and begins, “Let me suck your cock. I know you want me to. I’m good, I’ll swallow you down whole and lick your balls while I’m at it.” 

There’s the soft sound of paper on paper as Phil peels off one of the bills and drops it. Clint catches it mid air. When more is not forthcoming, he narrows his eyes and continues. 

“You can fuck me. Gimme five minutes and you can fuck my tight little ass. And I’ll call you Daddy while you do it. Or Sir. Or whatever the fuck you want me to. I’ll be your slave.” 

Another note drifts down in front of him and joins the other in his hand. He visibly searches for more to say. “You can spank me. Punish me for being such a dirty little slut. Anything that won’t leave a mark. That costs extra.” 

 

Phil drops another note and watches Clint scoop it up. “Tell me you need it.”

 

Clint answers immediately, caught up on the game now. “I do. I need it so bad. I need your dick in me. Filling me up. Using me. Please fuck me, mister, please.” His eyes are wide and blue and stupidly innocent looking considering the things he’s saying. Phil drops some more bills - he’s honestly lost count - and threads his fingers through Clint’s hair as he picks them up from where they’ve scattered. 

“Tell me you want to choke on my cock. Tell me you want me to fuck your mouth.” 

Clint swallows like he's scared and then he nods. “I wanna choke on it. Please fuck my dirty little mouth, sir.” 

 

The zipper is a soft noise, and Phil doesn’t bother to undo anything else before working his cock out of the folds of fabric, til he’s standing there fully dressed but for his dick jumping in time with his heartbeat. Clint licks his lips and stares at it before opening his mouth and leaning forward. Phil grabs his hair and finishes the job, shoving into his mouth and making him cough. He barely lets him get his breath back before he does it again, pulling him off so he can cough and splutter some more. “Choke on it,” he says, “Goddamn whore.” 

 

Clint clutches the money in his fist and lets Phil use his mouth and his throat, his eyes watering from the choking. “You want more?” he asks, and Clint nods trepidatiously before he’s fed Phil’s cock again. Phil can feel Clint’s throat constrict around the head when he holds him there, moving his hips slightly just to feel the tight rub of it. 

 

Eventually, Phil pulls Clint off and lets him gasp for a moment before letting go and walking to his bedroom. He sits on the bed and starts unbuttoning his shirt, pulling the tails from his waistband as he watches Clint. “Get over here.”

Clint starts to get up and Phil shakes his head. “No. Crawl.” 

 

Clint huffs but then crawls over slowly, making a show of it. By the time he’s there Phil has his pants half off with his shirt open over his chest. He pulls them off and scoots back on the bed. Clint follows him and goes back to work. It’s better this way, since, while Clint Barton is excellent at blowjobs, Clint The Whore is a pro. He does much the same as he does at home but it’s neater, more precise. A destination of it’s own rather than a preamble to sex, even though that’s exactly what it is. Phil’s impressed. 

 

He pushes Clint away so he can move back down the bed. “Take off your clothes.” 

The bed jiggles as Clint steps off of it to strip quickly, taking a couple of condoms, a packet of lube and a small vial of something out of his pocket before discarding his jeans. He puts them on the nightstand and then looks at Phil, awaiting instruction. 

 

Clint’s always beautiful as far as Phil’s concerned, naked especially so, but right now, being so goddamned patient like this when he’d normally be pouncing on Phil with all his boundless energy, it’s almost more than he can bear. At least, more than he can bear without breaking whatever this spell is. “Suck me and show me your hole,” Phil instructs, putting as much sternness into his voice as he can. Clint complies, gingerly kneeling over Phil and getting his mouth around his cock, warm and wet as Phil inspects his ass. If this was home, and they were Phil and Clint, he’d lean in and lick, work his tongue through that hard ring of muscle til it was warm and pliant around him, but instead he feels for that packet of lube before slicking him up and stretching him with his fingers. Clint’s dick goes ignored as Phil puts his two thumbs inside him to pull them apart. “You are tight,” he remarks. “I’m never gonna get my cock in here.” 

 

The pressure on Phil’s cock where Clint’s eating it stops as he leans up and turns. “Gimme the thing-” he points towards the nightstand and Phil puts a couple of fingers in place of his thumb like he’s marking his place in a book before leaning over to throw the little bottle down the bed at Clint. 

 

Clint opens and inhales from it sharply, finger pressed over one nostril before he shakes his head and goes back to work. The pressure around Phil’s fingers loosens like a wave ebbing away, coming back for a moment before pulsing away again. He gets another couple of fingers into him and Clint moans. Phil doesn’t like poppers at home but this isn’t home and it isn’t really Clint. He does it again and the pressure eases still. 

 

“You’re ready,” Phil decides, and he pushes at Clint til he’s on the bed beside him. “Get on your stomach,” he’s told, and when he does, Phil moves and slides two fingers into him again. “Condom,” Clint mumbles from the bedsheets. “I don’t do bareback.” 

 

It ought not to be hot but somehow it really is - the ultimate demonstration that they’re meant to be strangers, that one or both of them might not be _clean_ and this pretend little thing of theirs could be something else entirely. 

“How much for raw?” Phil asks, because he’s an asshole. There’s something brilliant about how even with this being all pretend, Clint tells him, “Not happening.”

 

“Fine,” he says, rolling on a condom - and it’s been so long since he’s done that that it feels so fucking illicit - before moving properly and pressing his cock inside. 

 

It’s an uncomfortable angle for Clint like this, so perfectly at the mercy of Phil with his weight pressed on top of him. He slides in and back out, almost all the way before slipping in again. Clint does something with the bottle and Phil feels him open more for him, like his body’s trying to suck him in. 

 

“You like this?” Phil asks, leaning down to bite Clint’s shoulder. “Yes,” Clint replies, choked off by Phil’s movements pushing him into the bed. “Love it.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

It’s not til afterwards, when Phil’s filled the condom and tied it off, which has never been hot before but somehow is the fucking hottest thing in the world, that Clint - Clint Barton, Agent of Shield and Boyfriend of Phil Coulson - gets to come himself. 

 

Phil covers him in kisses and holds onto him tightly - too tight, and he’s conscious of being too clingy with it but can’t stop - and jerks Clint’s cock a few times before he cries out and comes. 

Even then, covered in cum and lube and sweat, Phil can’t let him go, like their little play will suddenly become real and Clint will leave with the cash, on to the next John and the next. “So fucking clingy,” Clint says, but it’s said with a laugh in his voice, so that’s ok. 

 

Eventually he pries himself away from Phil’s sticky clutches to take a shower, which Phil joins him in for more clinginess and to get clean too, though a tiny (miniscule) part of him wants to wear Clint’s cum like some sort of gross badge of ownership.

 

“You know, you shouldn’t have come,” he says as they’re towelling off. “I’m working.”

Clint doesn’t reply because he doesn’t have to, it’s clear to both of them just how not mad Phil is, even if he’s meant to be.

 

When he’s at the door, Phil can’t stop himself from pulling Clint back in for one last kiss after another, like he’s not going to see Clint for weeks. Like this really is the illicit affair it turned into. Clint still has the money - it’s part of his cover, he says, and Phil kind of concedes that’s true. He’ll probably find it when he gets home hidden in the freezer or in a mattress because Clint’s weird like that. “You’d better go before my wife gets back,” Phil whispers, and Clint shakes his head and laughs. “You gonna tell her?” 

Phil leans back and the look he gives Clint is enough to have him laugh out loud. “I’d like to keep my testicles intact,” he says. “If she knew I was having fun she’d probably remove them.” 

Clint pouts. “But I like your testicles.” 

“Me too,” Phil agrees, moving in for another kiss. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by, yet didn't really fill a prompt I was sent via [ tumblr. ](http://adamantsteve.tumblr.com/ask)If you have a prompt you'd like me to take a bash at you're welcome to send away :)   
> The poppers element of this story was also a prompt from there but I didn't post it as a fill because it's just mentioned in passing. I've never used them myself so any errors there are due to lack of first hand knowledge.


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